


Out of the Darkness

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mary is Not Nice, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, TAB compliant, overdose - mention briefly, set after s3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>John Watson has long assumed Sherlock Holmes is immune to sentiment,  "doesn't feel things that way." Sherlock, however, would do anything for the person he loves most in the world, including putting himself in danger while keeping John in the dark in hopes of keeping him safe. Tired of being left behind, John is running a strategy of his own. Unfortunately things do not go as planned for either of them. And as John lays bleeding, Sherlock finally allows himself to say the things he’s always meant to...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> <em>This is the story of love, forgiveness and finally making right all the wrongs in these two men's lives.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be a two parter (at least) but it will be updated soon :) Note, tags and rating will change as the story progresses so keep a watch on that.  
> A big thank you to [Happierstill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Happierstill) who helped me come up with this idea and is my biggest cheerleader. (and who helped me write the summary. Thank you!)
> 
> Another big thanks to my Beta and Brit-picker [Jamlockk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk) thank you so much, this has been made a lot better with your help!
> 
> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And please check out this lovely [artwork](http://be-there-now-in-a-minute.tumblr.com/post/114705960004/sherlock-hes-gone-my-johnlock-art-tag) by the fantastic Be-There-Now-In-a-Minute on tumblr, it is a perfect visual for this chapter! Gorgeous!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

Sherlock Holmes is currently experiencing a very bad case of deja-vu. Standing in the darkened warehouse, he once again finds himself staring down the muzzle of a revolver. And as before, the finger on the trigger belongs to none other than Mrs Mary Watson, the wife of his best friend. This time, however, he had anticipated this result; planned for it even. A careful trap meticulously plotted to lure her right where he wanted her. Right to this very warehouse where at this moment Mycroft is ready to jump in and capture her, take her away to face justice for her many crimes. Any minute now….

“Again, Mary? Dull.”

Sherlock is stalling for time. It is imperative Mary believes she has gotten away with everything, the only surefire way to ensure John’s safety. It’s a dangerous game, for Mary is an excellent shot, evidenced by the small scar he already bears, proof of her willingness to do whatever it takes to protect her lies. One of those lies was the root of this meeting, the contract she thinks she’s come to collect on; his death. Still Moriarty’s second after all this time. Sherlock knows he’s playing with a snake but he’s willing to do it, for one reason. For John.

“Oh, Sherlock. I killed you too slowly last time.”

Mary’s laugh rings out across the empty space, cold and shrill. Sherlock hates her laugh, has always hated it. It never fails to send a cold chill down his spine, a tingle of fear and repulsion traveling in its wake. Was there ever any warmth in that laugh, in that woman? If there was, there certainly isn’t now. There is certainly nothing warm about the reptilian tilt of her head as she angles her gun at him, dressed for the occasion in her black assassin gear. Gear, he notes ruefully, that fits much better now that she’s shed the fake belly, the pregnancy just another ploy in her game.

“What did you tell John about the baby?”

“I lost it of course. Easy enough to fake. John didn’t even notice. For a doctor he really is quite unobservant isn’t he? About a great many things.”

Hearing her disparage John makes anger flare white hot in his gut. This person, this psychopath, has no right to say anything about John Watson. John, brave, honest John, with his horrible taste in jumpers and his quick temper, his loyalty and laughter. So many complexities that Sherlock admires and on which he relies. This person who is supposed to be his wife can never understand him. Sherlock tempers his rage and remembers that it is John for whom he is doing this. After this, he will finally be safe. The last piece of Moriarty's network will be gone and finally they can relax.

“Well. No one anticipated Jim sending his second to play housewife. How was it? You must have been dreadfully bored, playing the doctor’s wife. Tell me, did you ever love John?”

Mary laughs again, “Sherlock. As I said before, you were very slow. The point was never whether or not  _ I  _ loved John. He did tell you, but you didn’t listen…”

A chill travels down Sherlock’s spine at the words, Mary mimicking the strange sing-song nature of Jim Moriarty's taunt perfectly. That’s all this ever was, he knows. Mary, the wedding, John. All designed to burn the heart out of him. Sherlock has to commend him on his admirable job. Because right at this moment, he’s forced to admit he’s damn near charred.

Sherlock can remember with vivid clarity the night he came back from the ‘dead’, the reception he’d received at John’s hands. He’d expected gratitude. Happiness, maybe even excitement at his return. A bit of awe perhaps, at his clever plan to outsmart the criminal genius. Instead, he’d received fists. Pain and blood, and the knowledge that he’d been replaced. Watching John with Mary had taken something inside of Sherlock and twisted it, a feeling which up until that moment Sherlock had heard ordinary people mention but had never experienced himself. But watching John walk away, while he stayed behind, standing on that sidewalk, holding the jagged edges of his split lip together, Sherlock could name it - heartbreak. It wasn’t just the loss of John as a flatmate, but that something more that always seemed to frisson under the surface, the something Sherlock wasn’t even sure he understood, but which he keenly missed. Even when John forgave him, and Sherlock set about planning the perfect wedding for him, there was still a puzzle piece missing, something that didn’t seem to fit. Sherlock was so intent to make himself fit into John’s new life, he was willing to quiet his suspicions about Mary, about the fact he couldn’t fully read her. In retrospect, he wishes he had spoken up sooner. Saved themselves all this time. Saved himself the small scar he was sporting under his Belstaff, below his heart. A scar it appears Mary is intent on replicating.

Mary levels the gun coolly at Sherlock, this time aiming for his forehead. That won’t do, he’d planned for another chest wound, the kevlar heavy where it rests under his suit. A head shot would be most...unfortunate. Still, Mycroft would protect John. He’d promised.

When they first made the arrangements to draw Mary out, in the cell after the Magnussen affair, he’d made Mycroft promise that no matter what, John would be safe. It was the only way Sherlock would agree to the plan. Because the plan was risky. It involved keeping John completely in the dark about Mary’s full past, the data that was on the flash drive. It involved pushing John to forgive her for shooting his best friend. And most painfully, it involved keeping John as far away from himself as possible. The past two months have since been a nightmare of subterfuge and lies, games and distractions. Sherlock has felt adrift without his steady companion, his friend. But the plan required Mary to think John was on her side, fully and completely, and Sherlock couldn’t risk John giving anything away. He planned to tell John as soon as this part was over, and then see if maybe they could move on without the threat of danger hanging over their heads.

Mary pauses for just  a moment, head tilted to the side, like a thought has just occurred to her. “Do you know why this was so easy? Because of you. You broke him, you know. Poor broken John. It was so simple to move in and be what he needed. To manipulate him to do whatever I wanted. You ran off and died and left him grieving for you, and I was there to pick up the pieces. And I’ll do it again. Only,” she smiles, that calculating smile that makes Sherlock’s skin crawl, “You won’t be coming back this time. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

At that moment, Sherlock hears the door open, Mary turns to look, and a startled gasp escapes her lips. Thank god for Mycroft’s impeccable timing, Sherlock thinks. He does love to be dramatic.

“Drop the gun, Mary, it’s over.”

Sherlock startles. That voice. That isn’t Mycroft’s cultured tones he hears.  _ It can’t be. _ He moves to his left to peer around Mary, and what he sees makes his heart drop to his stomach.  _ No. This is not the plan. _

He’s going to kill Mycroft. Because standing 10 feet in front of him, leveling a well-used Sig Sauer at Mary, is none other than John Watson.

John is looking leaner than the last time Sherlock saw him. The tarmac, over two months ago now. He’s lost near 10 pounds in that time, and his hair, always on the peppered side of blond, appears to have gone even more grey. However, the weight loss and the grey hair does nothing to distract Sherlock from the fact that he’s still heartbreakingly beautiful, and his breath catches as he sweeps his eyes over his frame.  _ Focus, Sherlock _ . What he needs to know, and he needs to know  _ now _ , is why he is here? Sherlock has spent the last two months ignoring every text, every call, every attempt at contact John has made, each time harder than the last. But it was with the knowledge that this day would come, his reckoning with Mary, and he wanted John to have no part of it. John needed to be safe. If Mary thought John was ignorant, she would leave him be and keep her attentions focused on Sherlock. If she thought for one minute John knew her past, who she truly was, Sherlock shuddered to think what would happen then. Would Mary turn on John? Complete the mission she had begun so many years ago at the pool? Or had she truly given up on that life, truly fallen in love with her mark? There were too many factors to just assume her actions, and so Sherlock and Mycroft had decided to leave John out, let him play happy husband while they worked behind the scenes. And now here he was, messing up all of Sherlock’s carefully orchestrated plans.  _ And where the hell was Mycroft _ ?

“John, for god’s sake, what are you doing here?” Sherlock is hoping his voice sounds annoyed, because in truth he’s terrified. He needs John to leave this instant. He’s trying to think of the fastest way to get him to leave when he catches Mary watching him out of the corner of her eye. He schools his expression, attempting to calm his racing heartbeat, and turns away from her, focusing on John.

“I could ask you the same.” John turns and meets Sherlock’s eyes, and what Sherlock sees makes his stomach twist. John is angry. Deadly angry. And not entirely only at Mary it seems. John turns back towards Mary, fixing her with a sneer.

“I came to have a talk with my wife.” He spits the word ‘wife’ like it’s venom, poisoning his tongue. And maybe it is, Sherlock thinks. Maybe there is more going on there than he knows.  _ Must ask Mycroft. _

Mary eyes John speculatively, crossing her arms in front of her, and resting the gun on the opposite forearm. Her finger is still hovering over the trigger, still dangerous, but Sherlock is relieved to see she is no longer pointing it in his direction. Or for that matter, in John’s.

“You read it.” It's not a question.

“Of course I did.” John lowers his own gun, now resting against his thigh, pointing at the floor.

“You’ve gotten better at lying, dear.”

John gives a mirthless laugh. “I suppose I have the two of you to thank for that,” he says, waving his hand between Mary and Sherlock.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut at the pain he can hear behind John’s words. He knows without a doubt, that this whole mess is all his fault. And not just this, here today, but the past three years. All him. If only he could have found another way to beat Moriarty. If he hadn’t left in the first place, jumped off that roof, would any of this had happened? It’s a question he asks himself almost every day, and has yet to come up with an answer. All he knows is he’d do whatever it takes to keep John safe. And right now, that involves somehow getting Mary’s attention back on him.

Sherlock clears his throat and begins to speak, but is cut off by John before he can even start.

“Shut up, Sherlock! We aren’t doing this your way. Not anymore,” John says, fixing Sherlock with an icy stare, his blue eyes cold. “I listened to you last time, and watched you almost get sent away, for her. And then, I get shut out for my pains. So no. This time, I’m doing things my way.”

The fury in his tone makes Sherlock suck in a breath. He never realized that John thought Magnussen was for her. For Mary. Never for Mary. After all this time, how can John not know that Sherlock did that for him? To protect him, to keep his family, the life he had built for himself, safe? For his child, who Sherlock truly believed existed. And maybe, if Sherlock is being honest, it had something to do with the humiliation to which John had been subjected. Anger such as he had never known seized him, watching those slimy hands touching John. Taunting John. It was too much to be borne. Magnussen was one murder Sherlock cannot say he regrets dealing out.

“John, listen to me,” Sherlock starts, eyeing Mary warily where she stands five feet to his right, “now is not the time, we can discuss things later. But you need to leave. Now.”

“Why? Don’t I deserve to know what’s going on in my own damned life? I’m sick of being a pawn in everybody’s bloody games, Sherlock. Especially yours.”

John turns toward Mary, “Now you and I are going to have a quick chat.”

Sherlock ponders the position they currently are in. Mycroft is unaccountably late, and despite his best efforts he is starting to become a bit worried. He’d assumed Mary was working alone. The ruse that Jim was alive was enough to draw her out. It was easy enough to fake communication with her, put pressure on her to deliver on old contracts, notably the one on his own life. Sherlock and Mycroft could find no trace of any partners or any communication with any other people, save for David Nelson. But that contact proved to be nothing more than an ordinary affair, common adultery. David was certainly no criminal mastermind, and nothing in his history brooked any concern, so Sherlock had quickly dismissed him as an accomplice. Could he have overlooked something, some detail, some other person assisting in her schemes?

John and Mary are not paying any attention to him, locked in an escalating war of words, so Sherlock slips his hand inside his coat pocket to where his cell phone is hidden, sending a quick text to Mycroft.

**_John here. Your presence would be most appreciated - SH_ **

Slipping his mobile back in his pocket, Sherlock feels the buzz of the incoming text alert. He doesn’t need to read it, just the notice is enough to calm his rising panic. Mycroft is fine and the plan can continue. Except, somehow he still needs to convince John to leave. Any concerns he had over John’s protestation at Mary being taken away are swiftly being laid to rest at the argument he can hear raging in front of him. Husband and wife are all but circling one another now, accusations flying. Sherlock wishes he’d had the chance to disarm Mary before the sparring started. She is far too handy with a gun for his liking; the round scar on his chest can attest to that. Sherlock takes a step closer to John, just as Mary delivers a particularly vile retort that leaves John bristling.

“It’s not at all the same,” he growls, glaring at his wife.

“It’s exactly the same!” Mary yells, taking a step forward, “You killed people under orders, and so did I.”

“You killed for money!”

“Oh John, ever the soldier.” She gives a mocking laugh, glancing in Sherlock’s direction as he moves closer to the tableau, “Queen and country. How quaint.”

“You shot Sherlock. You killed- why? How? How could you do that to him? To me?” John’s voice is so quiet, it is hard to make out in the empty space. “You never answered me, Mary. Why?”

“Like he said,” Mary nods in Sherlock’s direction. “It was surgery. I was frightened.”

John throws his head back and laughs. The sound of it breaks something wide open inside of Sherlock. It echoes off the walls and settles into his bones, the sound of pure anguish. He hates that it is coming out of John’s mouth.

“John-” Sherlock starts.

“No!” John shouts pointing a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “No. I’ve had enough of your lies. Let someone else try,” he says pointing at Mary. “Go on.”

Mary isn’t answering, staring at John with her head titled to the left in that manner of hers, like she can read every secret thought, a smug, mocking smile playing on her pouted lips. She glances at Sherlock, the smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, until suddenly she can’t contain it, a giggle spilling out of her frame. Sherlock is shocked by the innocence of the sound, if her eyes weren’t cold steel on his he could almost buy it.

John sniffs. “Something I said?”

“Why? You want to know why? Because it was my job. Because I was paid to. But I’ll tell you something,” Mary stares between John and Sherlock, now standing just a shoulder length apart, her eyes tracking between the two of them.  “I’d have done it for free.”

John looks at Sherlock, pain radiating in his beautiful blue eyes, the betrayal of hearing his worst ideas confirmed almost too  much to bear. For a moment, only a moment, Sherlock wraps himself in that gaze, and stares back, willing his own feelings to the surface.  _ Please John, it’ll all be over soon, I promise. _

“Why?” John chokes out, looking away, back towards Mary.

“Because you never looked at me like that once he came back,” Mary says nodding at the two of them.

John sucks in a breath and looks down. Sherlock waits for the denials, the “we’re not a couple”,  “I’m not gay”, “he doesn’t feel things like that” to start. Nothing comes. John is staring at the floor, his shoulders hunched. He looks utterly defeated, and Sherlock’s heart breaks even more. God damn Mary.

Sherlock is about to launch into his own attack when he hears the sound of the outer warehouse doors being breached. Thank god, Mycroft, finally.

“Well, Mary. It seems the game is over,” Sherlock says.

“Oh Sherlock, the game is never over. And I have no intention to stop playing.”

With that Mary raises her gun, pointing it at Sherlock. From beside him, he hears John shout out, and then he is pushed roughly to the side, tumbling sideways across the cold concrete floor. Before he can register what has fully transpired, a shot ( _ or is it two? _ ) rings out, the sound catastrophically loud in the confined space. Mycroft’s men are rushing in, he can hear them shouting orders, giving commands, but his eyes are frantically searching the semi-darkness for one person.

He scans the area where he was just standing, looking for the familiar figure and what he sees causes panic such as he has never known to rise in his chest. Because crumpled on the ground not three feet from where he fell is the prone figure of John Watson.

Sherlock tries to get to his feet three times before just succumbing to gravity pulling him down. He crawls over to John, praying the whole time to every deity that he doesn’t believe in that it’s just a graze, just a simple wound and that John, lively, lovely John will be just fine. He hasn’t a clue about Mary, and at the moment he couldn’t care less what happens to her, as long as John is all right. If he isn’t, there will be hell to pay. No force on earth could stop him from ripping her limb from limb.

He reaches John’s side and begins to inspect the damage. At first, nothing looks amiss,  no visible wounds in the lower extremities, or thankfully, in the head. John seems to be merely passed out, lying on his back, eyes closed, gun still cradled in his hand. Sherlock reaches out and removes the weapon, slipping the safety on before tucking it into the pocket of his coat. In case the police do show up, he doesn’t need any additional trouble. Not that he couldn’t get Mycroft to smooth things over with Lestrade, but still the extra worry is not necessary at the moment.

John lets out a groan, opening his eyes just barely. “Sh’lock?” He whispers.

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock says, resting his hand on John’s shoulder.

John turns to look at him, his blue eyes blurry in the dim light.“Y’ok?

“Yes, thanks to you, idiot.” Sherlock forces a small smile. John, ever the soldier, ever the doctor, worrying about him first. “What about you, are you hurt?”

“Don’t know, pain…”

Sherlock freezes, “Where?”

John tries to motion with his right hand towards his torso, but at that moment, he seizes up, back arching, as a great cry bubbles from his lips. Sherlock grabs the lapels of John’s jacket, ripping open the buttons in his haste to see what is causing this reaction. He throws the jacket away from John’s body, straining his eyes to see any injuries. What he sees causes his blood to run cold.  Spreading outwards at an alarming rate, a dark vivid stain is creeping across John’s chest. Sherlock reaches down and begins unbuttoning John’s cardigan, his shirt, all the while trying to stop his hands from trembling. Parting the sides of John’s clothing with great care, he sees the wound. Ironically, it is in near the same spot he carries his own. How fitting, she shot them both in the heart.

“Jo-John?” Sherlock voice is shaking, his whole body numb with the shock of finding John, his John in this way.

“Scarf,” John whispers.

Sherlock has to lean forward to hear, his ear nearly pressed to John’s lips. “Scarf.” He whips off his scarf, and presses firmly on the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood seeping from John’s body. He shifts so he is sitting on the cold floor beside John, taking John’s head and cradling it in his lap.

“John, please. You can’t…”

“M’glad you’re ok. Sorry.” John says, his words faint, before closing his eyes.

Sherlock feels the body in his arms go limp. The heartbeat beneath his fingertips is slowing where he is applying pressure. His blue scarf is nearly purple, stained and wet with John’s blood. Sherlock knows that paramedics have been called, no doubt thanks to Mycroft, he can hear the sirens in the distance getting closer, can hear Mycroft’s men surrounding them. He’s grateful for his brother’s influence, for once, because he doesn’t want to let go of the man in his arms. Not ever.

“John, please. Don’t leave me. Please. Hold on. I know you can. You were a soldier, you’re the bravest man I’ve ever known, and the strongest. Please.” He’s babbling, constant streams of begging prose falling from his lips. He’s never begged before today, but now he’d give anything to take back the last half hour. Sherlock raises one hand to stroke John’s face, traces a finger across the tanned expanse of jaw and cheekbone, to those lovely eyelashes, butterfly kisses of touch that he never had the chance to indulge in before now. Before it was too late.

“No! John, I can’t do this without you. You mean so much - I never told you. I should have told you.”

He hears footsteps approaching, the tap of an umbrella handle. Mycroft. It has to be now. He has to tell him, if this is the last chance, John needs to know.

“John. I- I love you.” Sherlock leans over, resting his head on John’s, silent sobs racking through his body.

“Sherlock, the paramedics are here. You have to let go,” Mycroft says, his tone somber.

Sherlock looks up at his brother, his eyes blurry with tears. “Mary?”

“Dead. Shot in the head.” He nods toward John. “His gun?”

“Pocket.”

Mycroft reaches down and retrieves the weapon, slipping it into his own overcoat. “Sherlock, you have to let go.”

The paramedics are off to the side, Mycroft waves them over towards the two men. Sherlock gives John one final squeeze, leaning over to whisper softly, “Fight. For me. I love you,” before standing up.

Sherlock surreptitiously wipes his eyes before turning to glare at his brother. “You and I need to have a discussion, I think.”

Mycroft has the good grace to look sheepish. “Indeed,” he says before turning on his heel and striding away.

Sherlock stares down at his hands, John’s blood staining the pale skin a vivid red. The medics are rushing John away, frantically working to keep him breathing, bundling him into the waiting ambulance. Sherlock follows behind blindly, feet moving of their own accord, his brain completely taken offline. Images of John, and blood, and the light fading from those deep blue eyes. He reaches the back of the ambulance, and moves to climb in, but is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa, mate. No room for you, you can follow,” the medic says nodding at the sleek black car idling just behind.

Sherlock wants to protest, he belongs with John. What if John opens his eyes? He needs to know Sherlock is there. He needs to make sure that John will be okay. But the medic is slamming the door shut in his face, the ambulance pulling away, and he has no choice but to turn towards the car, opening the back door and folding himself into the backseat.

His brother is waiting for him, it appears as if their conversation will be now. No better time than the present, he surmises. Mycroft hands Sherlock some wipes, and he takes the offering, slowly scrubbing at the blood congealing on his fingers. John’s blood. Sherlock shudders and sucks in a breath, scrubbing harder at his right hand. Finally clean, he drops the wipes and turns his head towards the window, watching the buildings rise and fall as they pass by in a vague blur.

A slim hand breaks his gaze, the smell of nicotine and tar breaking through his haze of misery.

“Better not be low tar,” he comments, taking the proffered cigarette from his brother’s fingers.

“Peace offering, brother dear.”

Sherlock takes a drag of the cigarette, puffing the smoke out though this lips. “Why? What was John doing there? You promised to keep him away.”

“John approached me not long after the Magnussen affair,” Mycroft begins, twirling the handle of his umbrella in his hands. “He was upset by what he had found on the memory stick.”

Sherlock jerks his head sharply to look at Mycroft, “He said he didn’t read it. He told me he threw it in the fire. It was in the fireplace at our parents’ house at Christmas.”

“Apparently, Dr Watson has been practicing his subterfuge. He traded the real one for a fake.”

Sherlock is surprised. He’d never known John to be an effective liar. It’s why he’d had to keep him in the dark during the Moriarty affair, afraid to let him know he was alive for fear that it would show. John’s face is what always gives him away. It’s in the eyes. It’s why Sherlock hasn’t spoken to John for the past two months, afraid to give away the plan he’d been cultivating. Mary is, was, he corrects, too shrewd not to read John like an open book. He couldn’t allow that to happen, allow her to cause John any harm. Of course, his best laid plans fell to pieces, again. As much as he tried, he couldn’t control John. And now, Sherlock cannot bear to think about what is going to happen. He always thought as soon as Mary was safely put away, he could contact John, be there for him to help rebuild his life. Perhaps John would even move back home to Baker Street.  _ Stupid, stupid Sherlock _ . As it stands, a life without John Watson in it would not be worth living. He can’t bear to consider it.

Sherlock takes a deep breath before responding. “So he read the drive. He came to you. To what end?”

Mycroft sighs, “He wanted out of his marriage. He wanted revenge, Sherlock. He was angry at her for having shot you. And quite unhappy over the other...assignments, on her record.”

“If that were the case, why come to you?”

He can sense Mycroft’s eyes on him, his discerning gaze unraveling every secret in his head. Sherlock wishes he had the energy to deflect, to throw his brother off the scent, but he’s too exhausted to care. This is the crux. If John really didn’t forgive Mary, if he wanted out, why didn’t he come to Sherlock? Why go to Mycroft?  _ Mycroft?! _ And why was John so angry at him? Did John still not understand that everything Sherlock did, he did it out of concern for John’s safety?

“I’m sure I do not know, however, he was quite adamant that you be kept in the dark of his involvement. For your protection, I believe,” Mycroft adds, as an afterthought.

“So you told him of my rendezvous today?”

“Again, the good doctor surprised me. He called me. Apparently he had worked out what Mary was up to, and wanted to alert me to what was happening. He was understandably irate when I had to tell him I already knew.”

So that explains part of his anger. Mycroft knew of Sherlock’s plans and didn’t divulge them. John must have felt betrayed all over again. Here was Sherlock, off on his own again, and if John was indeed trying to protect him, meeting with Mary would not be the result he would have wanted. No wonder he showed up, and armed. Still, Mycroft knew his conditions, he knew what it meant to keep John away these past few months. And still he let him walk right into that warehouse, right into a standoff with a trained assassin. Sherlock had dressed for the occasion. John hadn’t.

“You told him you knew. You told him I was in that warehouse, and you let him walk in there, unprotected?” Sherlock asks, suddenly angry. At Mycroft, at Mary, at himself, for allowing things to get this far.

Mycroft looks away and down, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes, “I never thought- I didn’t think she’d actually hurt him.”

“What you didn’t anticipate, Mycroft, is that he wasn’t going to allow her to hurt me. It was me she was aiming at. I didn’t expect his interference, either,” Sherlock adds quietly, returning his gaze to the window and finishing his cigarette.

The two men pass the rest of the drive in silence, resolutely not looking in the other’s direction. Sherlock is consumed with thoughts of John and regret. So much regret. If he hadn’t shut him out these past two months, would John have have been there today? Would he have trusted Sherlock and allowed him to finish the job with Mary, stayed safe? Probably not, Sherlock thinks, with a rueful smile, he would have demanded to be at Sherlock’s side, partners in all areas. Could Sherlock have protected him better that way, shoulder to shoulder, knowing exactly what to expect? Perhaps.  _ When will I learn? _ he thinks.

Regrets of another kind also flood his brain. Why, why did he wait so long to tell John how he felt about him? Why couldn’t he have said something sooner? So many chances wasted. Teaching John to dance. Their bodies pressed in close, the scent of John in his arms making his skin flare and flush, trying desperately to control the shivers that traveled through his veins each time John’s hands brushed his back, his shoulder blades, his waist. It would have been so easy to close the distance then, give into the temptation and tell John that it has always been and always will be only him. Ask him to reconsider his choice of Mary. But Sherlock was afraid. So afraid. Of hearing John give his usual replies, denying the spark that has always existed between the two of them. So he stayed silent, played his part, nothing more. Even though it felt more and more like death, every time.

Stag night. Another wasted moment. He was almost positive John was making a move that night, the hand on his knee, fingers pressing into the flesh just above the bone. Both of them, tipsy with alcohol, pulling ever closer into one another’s orbits. How open John was that night, how lovely he was lost in drink and laughter. Sherlock sometimes wonders what would have happened if he had returned those tiny advances, would John still had gone through with the wedding? Or would they have simply tumbled into a pleasurable mistake?

Then there’s the wedding itself. Sherlock knows what he said in his toast. He knows that he told John right there how he felt, laid bare for the whole room to see. But John, beautifully unobservant John, didn’t see it for what it was. And by then, it was still too late. He and Mary were wed, man and wife, and no matter what Sherlock said, or desired, nothing would change that. It seems it is always too late for me, Sherlock thinks. I am always missing something, too slow.  And this time, it may have cost him everything. Perhaps Mycroft is right, caring is not an advantage. Sherlock wishes someone could explain it to his traitorous, newly healed heart.

The car stops at the front of the hospital, and Sherlock opens the door, climbing out of the seat. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns back towards the car, perplexed by the emotion he hears in Mycroft’s voice. Emotion, from Mycroft?

“I am sorry. Tell him, would you.”

“If he survives I’ll be sure to tell him your ineptitude allowed him to get injured, yes.”

“Good evening, brother dear,” Mycroft says, retreating back behind the tinted glass, the icy facade in place once more.

Sherlock watches as the car pulls away, then turns and walks on shaky legs into Royal Hospital, ready to accept the fate of his best friend.

Sherlock knows John has likely been rushed to the operating theatre. He remembers well enough his experience with a similar wound. Not that he was awake for his ordeal, but he can piece it together from what he had heard from others when he awoke. Operating table, flatlined, asystole.  Internal bleeding, damaged liver. Punctured vena cava. He’s hoping John has fared a bit better, but if he’s honest with himself he isn’t holding out much hope. He can remember the feel of the heartbeat slowing beneath his fingertips not long ago. Please, god, let him live.

Sherlock makes his way to the theatre, flipping down his coat collar on the way, and fluffing up his hair. He’ll try for non-threatening first, if he can help it, see if that will get him the answers he needs. Try to be a little less the arse with the ridiculous cheekbones and turned up collar. Memories of John in Dartmoor temporarily make him pause, a small smile playing at the corners  of his mouth. He shakes his head and continues on, eventually reaching the information desk.

“Excuse me, I’d like to check on Dr John Watson. Please,” He adds, his lips pulled up in the smile that never fails to make women comply. Well, it usually works on Molly.

“He’s in surgery,” the nursing assistant replies.

“Obviously. I am asking for the status.”

“As soon as the doctor is out I will have him come speak to you, Mr…”

Sherlock sighs. It appears as if unthreatening is not going to work tonight. Ok, then. “Holmes. Good. That will give you plenty of time to call and check on your boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry?” The assistant snaps her head up, looking at Sherlock with a horrified expression. “My what?”

“Your boyfriend. You haven’t heard from him all evening. Usually he texts you when he finishes his shift, but he hasn’t this evening, and that was two, no three hours ago, hence the reason you have your mobile open and unlocked right on top of the desk. You also haven’t heard from your best friend all evening, and she was supposed to ring by at suppertime. You’ve suspected for some time that they were having an affair behind your back, quite right too. If you left on break now, you just may catch them at it.” Sherlock finishes with a smug expression, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. She’ll either slap him or… yes, there she goes.

“Well, I - yeah, excuse me.” She hurries off, glancing backwards at him as she paces down the corridor towards the doorway, puzzled. Sherlock waits until she has gone completely before ducking behind the desk and finding the information he seeks.

**Watson - Dr Oberhauer.  OR-8**

Sherlock stalks down the hall towards operating theatre 8, hoping to find out what has happened to John. He approaches the room with a sense of dread, assaulted with a strange mixture of emotions. He is terrified to know what is happening. Terrified to hear the words that John has been taken from him for good. But at the same time, he needs to know how he is. Is he alive? Is he going to recover?

Sherlock paces the corridor in front of the operating theatre, thoughts racing through his head at a million miles a minute. Once again, he cannot stop himself from thinking that this is all his fault. If only he could have sussed her out earlier, found her secrets, he could have saved them all this pain, this trouble. That night he came back, he should have known. Why didn’t he listen to his instincts? Sherlock threads his hands through his curls and pulls, the pain helping to ground his thoughts. He needs to stay focused. Mary is dead. She cannot harm them any more. John, John is what matters, he is everything. If he survives, Sherlock promises that he will never do this again, run off without his blogger, his friend. His love?

His love. Sherlock stops pacing and slumps on the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. He feels lost, adrift in fear. He’d lost John to Mary, but at least he’d have a spot, a place in his life, fulfill a role. Be a mate, a best friend. But now, now what is left for him? If John dies, all the light in Sherlock’s life will be extinguished. His conductor of light. He doesn’t think he can survive it.

He buries his head in hands. “Please, John. I need you.”

The door opening startles him out of his thoughts, and he scrambles to his feet. The surgeon emerges,  _ short, trained in America, steady hands, top of his field, called in special for this case, married two kids, worked at Royal for 6 years _ .

“Dr Oberhauer?” he asks.

“Yes,” the surgeon replies, removing his mask, “I am. And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes. I’m a...relative..of Dr Watson. How is he?”

“Oh. Well. He’s stable. It was a close call, we thought we’d lost him there, when he was first brought in, flatlined on the table.” He must notice Sherlock’s stricken expression, because he hastens to add: “But we got him back, able to repair the damage to the inferior vena cava and control the internal bleeding.”

Sherlock puffs out a breath. “Can I see him?”

“He’s in recovery, but you can see him for a few minutes.”

He leads Sherlock to the recovery room, opening the door so he can step inside. John is the only patient in the room at the moment, a fact that pleases Sherlock considerably. Oberhauer gestures towards the bed, “Five minutes, for now.” Then he steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

As Sherlock approaches the bed, he can't help but think that John has never looked more helpless than he does at this moment. John would hate that. He would hate to look weak, look defeated. But he does. This man lying here is like a pale imitation of the real John. Sherlock feels lost in grief, looking down at the body of his best friend, frail and broken. For the second time that day, Sherlock’s eyes blur with unshed tears.

He steps closer to the bed, the incessant beeping of the monitors a reassurance that John’s heart is beating healthy and strong despite its ordeal. Like before, he reaches out one finger to touch John, light brushes against his hand where it lays on the bed. It is enough to convince him that John is still alive, and that is enough, for now.  

“Thank you. Thank you for staying. I need you. I’d be lost without you, John.”

Sherlock trails his fingers over John’s hand, over his wrist, up his forearms, before slowly trailing back down to grasp his hand again. He can remember the first time they’d held hands, running through the streets, two fugitives against the world. He entwines their fingers, staring at the contrast between long and short, pale and tanned. He wishes John would wake up, make some snide comment about the two of them holding hands like a pair of teenagers on a date.

“People will definitely talk, John,” he whispers, choking back a sob at the memory. “I’m so sorry.”

The door opens and Dr Oberhauer peeks his head in, “I’m sorry Mr Holmes, time is up,” he says kindly. “You can visit again once he is in his room.”

Sherlock nods, but doesn’t turn. “I’ll be right out.”

The door closes. Somehow, it feels different here, without the stress and fear of John bleeding out under his fingers, but he knows he needs to say it one last time. He’s not sure if John will remember, and he’s honestly not sure if he wants him to, but it feels wrong to leave this room with the words unspoken. Once more.

He leans over and whispers. “John. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

Heart unburdened, he unlaces his fingers, straightens up and leaves the room, never hearing the faint whisper of his name from the man in the bed behind him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sucks in a breath and looks down. He had suspected for a while now that Mary knew how he felt about Sherlock ... John, for his part, tried his best to repress all those feelings, push them down somewhere that they could never see the light of day ... God damn Mary. She knew. And to use it against him, to hurt Sherlock because of him? He’ll never forgive himself. 
> 
> John wants Sherlock to know it's always two of them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my Beta and Brit-picker [Jamlockk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk) thank you so much for fixing my issues and smacking me with a newspaper when stuff didn't work.
> 
> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

Mary is laughing. God he hates her laugh. John remembers there was a time he enjoyed it, when it didn’t make every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. A time when it actually felt like joy instead of mocking disdain. When was that? He wishes he could go back there. Back before he realised who and what she really was. Back before she put a bullet in his best friend.

“Drop the gun, Mary, it's over.” 

John is struggling to come to terms with what he sees in front of him. Sherlock in danger. Held at gunpoint by his wife. His lying, treacherous wife. Why did he ever think he could trust her? Oh, right. A glance at Sherlock reminds him. It was his idea, his brilliant plan. Sherlock urged him to forgive, to trust, to return to her side. And John, ever loyal, always did things Sherlock’s way. So he had. He forgave and believed her when she said she’d given it all up, turned over a new leaf. Or maybe he’d just wanted to believe. Sherlock had seemed so convinced that they could trust her; he accepted it but secretly hoped that it wouldn’t be permanent. He didn’t think his resolve could hold out forever. Not even Sherlock could convince John to fall back in love with a cold-blooded murderer. 

Then Sherlock went off and shot Magnussen. For Mary. To ensure her safety. John didn’t know what to think. On one hand he was grateful that the spectre of that man was gone. But on the other, he was terrified for what it would mean for Sherlock. And for him. A week later, he found out the price. A mission to Eastern Europe. For six months, or so he thought. John wanted to shout. Sherlock again running off and leaving him behind. 

And then, the miraculous news that no, the plane is coming back. Finding out that Sherlock almost OD’d. The realisation that it was a suicide mission on which Mycroft had sent his brother. John was barely hanging onto his sanity, trying to hold it all together. And just when John thought it couldn’t get any worse, Sherlock disappeared. For two months. Two bloody months. Not a single text, email, call, nothing. John wasn’t sure if he was hiding out, drugged out of his mind, or just ignoring him. The only thing that kept him sane was his communication with Mycroft. Mycroft provided just enough info to reassure him that Sherlock was safe. Their codeword: No List. 

And what was all this isolation for, John thinks as he watches Mary turn to him, gun poised. So he could rush back into danger? Back to this spot, standing in front of an assassin, determined that this time the bullet would do its job and take him away for good? Well no. John wasn’t having that. This time, no matter what Sherlock tells him, or tries to get him to believe, he is going to be there, to protect him, watch his back. Like he should have done in Magnussen's office. Or on the roof of Bart's, for that matter. It should be the two of them. Just the two of them, always. 

Sherlock starts to explain, it’s clear he wants John to leave. Typical, John thinks, the bloody sod trying to play the hero, do everything on his own. John’s had enough of his lies, his half truths, his games. 

There is a part of John that wants to go to him, wrap his arms around him and tell him that he’s here to protect him. To ensure that he will be safe, and that they meet each new challenge as a team. But a larger part of John is angry. So angry at the web of lies his life has become these past couple years. Lies spun not only from Mary and Sherlock’s lips, but from his own. 

Telling Mary he forgave her was the biggest. As if he could ever forgive the person who tried to take Sherlock away from him again. But he said the words he had rehearsed and then moved back in with her on Christmas day. The same day Sherlock decided it would be a brilliant idea to shoot a man in the head. In John’s mind, they both went to prison that night - one of their own making.

John had trusted Sherlock, then. Trusted that Sherlock had some plan to resolve the whole issue, some idea that would punish Mary for what she had done. A week later, he’d realised how starkly he was mistaken, the moment that plane landed and he rushed on board. He had been happy, relieved, and ecstatic when that plane had turned around. John was convinced this was Mycroft’s doing, a hoax to get his brother out of his mission. John couldn’t care less at the moment, he was just glad Sherlock was not leaving him behind. He vowed in that moment to rush onto the plane and tell Sherlock that the deal was off and he was coming back to Baker Street. 

But then, the list. That bloody list. And Mycroft’s insistence that Sherlock was high, and very well on his way to a full overdose. And everything in John’s body shut down. Blind rage, disappointment and mind-numbing grief targeted him all at once as Sherlock attempted to explain the difference between addict and user. As if there is a difference in this case, John thought bitterly. As Sherlock spun his fanciful tale of Moriarty and what he was going to do next, even though the man was definitely dead, John had quietly seethed. Because Sherlock’s plan, as usual, did not involve him. 

Sherlock had barely acknowledged John’s presence the entire car ride back to Baker Street, directing most of his attention to the window. John, on the other hand, had been intent on him, his eyes trailing over his face, his body, watching for any sign that Sherlock was about to succumb to the drugs he had taken. He could feel Mary’s stare on him the whole time, watching hotly through the passenger visor mirror, angled into the backseat. John wanted to scream. He thought he’d have a chance to talk with Sherlock as soon as they made it back to the flat, but again, Sherlock had other ideas. Unfolding himself from the back of the car, he all but slammed the door shut in John’s face, whispered a terse, “I’ll be in touch, be safe”. Then he was gone. 

Mary gloated then like the proverbial cat. “He probably wants to detox in peace, dear,” she’d crooned. John couldn’t answer her. He didn’t trust himself to speak. 

As soon as they made it back to their flat he’d immediately made plans. He’d trust Sherlock, but only so far. He was going to have backup. He’d give Sherlock a week. After that passed, it was a simple matter of a call to Mycroft and a meeting at the Diogenes the next day, and the plan was set in motion. Then it was a waiting game. And a performance. Every day of his life, pretending he loved Mary, that she was the one he truly wanted, when his every thought was focused on the other side of town. 

John was miserable. Those two months, he had heard nothing. John’s anger spikes anew just thinking about all the calls and texts he had sent. All of them unanswered. He lets his gaze sweep over Sherlock, taking notice of his pallor, trying to see the color in his eyes in the dim warehouse. John is pleased that he appears sober, but then again, looks can be deceiving. Sherlock glances up and meets his eyes, and there is a spike of longing that pierces through John’s chest. He has missed Sherlock, the two of them, against the world. And now here they are, united against one enemy, but still separated by a deep chasm of trust. 

“John, listen to me,” Sherlock starts, sliding his eyes to Mary, “now is not the time, we can discuss things later. But you need to leave. Now.”

“I’m sick of being a pawn in everybody’s bloody games, Sherlock. Especially yours,” John snarls and sees Sherlock’s face crumble, just the tiniest bit. The facade cracking. 

John tears his eyes away from Sherlock and glares at Mary. His wife. His supposed gave-it-all-up mother of his child. Only there isn’t any child and apparently never was. Another one of her lies. John can’t even remember the last time he heard something true from her lips. Every word she ever told him is false, down to the very essence of who she is. 

“Now you and I are going to have a quick chat,” he growls, turned fully in Mary’s direction. 

She tilts her head in that way of hers, the way he used to find so endearing when they’d first met. Cute, even. It was almost if she could read the thoughts so very present in his head when she looked like that. At the time, lost and depressed, he’d welcomed that, someone who could read him as easily as Sherlock could. He’s always admired that about Sherlock, his ability to read him, truly see him, where no one else could. Or would. And Mary, so very different than Sherlock in many ways, was so very similar as well. Clever, quick, and witty. And it was those qualities that drew him out, led him to accept her flirting, finally ask her on a date. Sherlock was gone, and John missed him terribly. Missed him more than a mere friend would do. John sometimes had trouble admitting it to himself, but the truth is, he loved Sherlock, had been in love with him when he fell. John mourned him like a lover, a widower, a partner. Someone he desperately wanted but had never had the courage to grab and make his own. Mary was someone John could give that love to, let it grow and blossom in his breast. Mary was the safe choice. 

A choice made even more evident the night of Sherlock’s return. John sat in the Landmark trying for all his might to move on, take the final step with Mary. And in waltzed Sherlock Holmes, prancing around pretending to be a waiter with his drawn on mustache and fruity accent. Making a joke out of the past two years. Making a mockery out of John’s pain. The unfeeling clod. John was so angry that night he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to punch him, hurt him until he felt as bad as John had. He wanted to kiss him, grab him and reassure himself that he was alive. In the end, the anger won out. John went home with Mary, and Sherlock went home with a bloodied nose. 

Looking back, he should have known then that Mary was not what she seemed. So quick to take Sherlock’s side. “I like him,” she'd said as the taxi pulled away from the final restaurant from which they’d been thrown. She was quick to try and talk John around to seeing Sherlock again. She was nearly desperate in her attempts, questions of “Don’t you miss him?” “Don’t you want to know where he’s been all this time, what he’s been doing?” That was the one question that she focused on. At the time, he’d thought she was truly concerned for John and his grief. But after he’d read that flash drive, he realized why she was so concerned. 

That flash drive. The one she told him not to read. The one he told Sherlock he threw in the fire at the Holmes’ at Christmas. The one the contents of which Sherlock is convinced he knows nothing. But oh, he does. He wishes he didn’t. Had just taken Sherlock at his word and trusted him, but he had to know. So he’d made a copy and sat on it. It felt like a lead weight in his pocket until, one week after the tarmac, he poured himself some liquid courage and read it. It had made his skin crawl. He already knew he could never forgive her for shooting Sherlock, but after what he saw, he could barely contain his disgust. Mary, the safe choice. How wrong he’d been. 

With Mycroft’s help, he tried. Tried to keep up appearances that everything was alright. Especially when the next blow came down. The baby was a fake. Surveillance photos delivered by Mycroft’s minions proved that. He was shattered at that point, ready to be done with the whole operation. Mycroft urged him to play along a little longer, said he was working to bring her to justice. John almost went to Baker Street then. He wanted to go to Sherlock, discuss the whole mess and ask, beg, Sherlock to help him. But in the end he’d trudged back home, resigned to wait. He couldn’t sit back and do nothing, however, especially when he figured out what Mary was planning, this meeting today. He had to be there, to put an end to things once and for all. He had no doubt that Mary would kill Sherlock, attempt to collect on the contract she believed was being called in since Moriarty was “alive.” He had to stop her. And when he found out that Mycroft had known about the meeting, had known because he had planned it with Sherlock himself, he saw red. The only thing he could think of was protecting that genius bastard so he could kill him himself. 

Mary’s retort snaps him out of his thoughts. “It’s not at all the same,” he growls, glaring at her. 

“It’s exactly the same!” Mary yells, taking a step forward, “You killed people under orders, and so did I.”

“You killed for money!”

“Oh John, ever the soldier.” She gives her mocking laugh, “Queen and country. How quaint.” 

“You shot Sherlock. You killed- why? How? How could you do that to him? To me?” John can hear his voice breaking as he asks the one question that has been plaguing him since that night in Leinster Gardens. “You never answered me, Mary. Why?”

“Like he said,” Mary nods in Sherlock’s direction. “It was surgery. I was frightened.”

John can’t help it. He laughs. He laughs like it is the funniest joke he’s ever heard. But there’s no joy in it. All of it, all of the pain he felt watching Sherlock bleed out on the floor of that office comes rushing back, and he can’t control it. Can’t stop it from bubbling up past his lips and echoing in the empty space. Frightened. As if she could ever be. 

Sherlock tries to get his attention, but John is having none of it. “No!” John shouts pointing a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “No. I’ve had enough of your lies. Let someone else try,” he says pointing at Mary. “Go on.”

Mary doesn’t answer right away, just gives that head tilt again, _god how had he ever found her attractive_ , and then laughs. Clear and cold, the sound falling like pinpricks on his skin. He wants to throttle her, shake her until she stops laughing. 

John sniffs. “Something I said?”

“Why? You want to know why? Because it was my job. Because I was paid to. But I’ll tell you something,” Mary eyes track from John to Sherlock, who has moved nearly to his shoulder. “I’d have done it for free.”

John looks up, then turns his head to catch Sherlock’s eyes. He can’t believe what he has just heard. Why? That’s all he wants to know. Why would she deliberately hurt him? A contract is one thing. A vile thing, yes. But to admit to wanting Sherlock dead, beyond an external reason? John cannot fathom it. Sherlock seems to be pleading with him, his eyes containing an emotion he has not seen before crossing those pale green irises. John is awed by the depth of compassion he sees. It’s a look that John would love to explore, if he wasn’t standing in the middle of a tense standoff with his lying, murderous wife. 

“Why?” John chokes out, turning his gaze back to Mary. 

“Because you never looked at me like that once he came back,” Mary says, nodding at the two of them. 

John sucks in a breath and looks down. He had suspected for a while now that Mary knew how he felt about Sherlock. That he loved him, mourned him, longed to be with him. But she never brought it up, and John, for his part, tried his best to repress all those feelings, push them down somewhere that they could never see the light of day. But Mary. God damn Mary. She knew. And to use it against him, to hurt Sherlock because of him? He’ll never forgive himself. 

Before he can even begin to reply, he hears the sound of the outer doors being breached. It appears that Mycroft has finally decided to join them. John is relieved, finally, Mycroft doing his damn job. But then Sherlock says something about the game being over, and Mary is raising her gun, aiming for Sherlock. John’s heart plummets and he doesn’t even think, reaching out and shoving Sherlock so hard that he stumbles across the floor. He can’t let her hurt him again, he won’t. He raises his gun out of instinct, pulling the trigger in an instant, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

Mary falls and John is glad. If he hadn’t been there today there’s no doubt she would have shot Sherlock again. And John’s positive it wouldn’t have been a recoverable wound this time. Looking around he sees Sherlock sprawled on the floor, and tries to move toward him, but a sharp pain brings him up short, his head clouding. The next thing he knows, he is laying on the cold floor, Sherlock’s face swimming in his vision. 

John lets out a groan. “Sh’lock?” He whispers.

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock says, resting his hand on John’s shoulder. His touch is light, almost tentative, and John wants to smile, he’s so glad that Sherlock is ok. But there is a nagging pain starting in his chest. It almost feels like a bee sting, and a cold fire seeping through his veins. John dimly registers that Mary must have shot him. How ironic. She got both of them in the end. 

John turns his head to look at Sherlock,“Y’ok?

“Yes, thanks to you, idiot.” Sherlock smiles. “What about you, are you hurt?”

“Don’t know, pain…”

Sherlock freezes, “Where?” 

John tries to point towards his chest, but the pain seizes him at that moment, and he arches up, crying out. Sherlock grabs the lapels of John’s jacket, ripping open the buttons and throwing the jacket away from John’s body. John can feel Sherlock’s trembling hands as he unbuttons his cardigan and his shirt and exposes his torso. He wants to reassure him, tell him that it will be ok, but he’s not sure he has the strength. 

“Jo-John?” Sherlock’s voice is shaking.

“Scarf,” John whispers. 

Sherlock has to lean forward to hear, his ear nearly pressed to John’s lips. “Scarf,” John repeats. Sherlock whips off his scarf, and presses firmly on the wound. Sherlock shifts and gently cradles John’s head in his lap. 

“John, please. You can’t…”

Sherlock’s voice is wrecked. There is a depth of emotion swimming in those pale eyes, clouded with unshed tears. John wants to stroke that face, caress those sharp cheekbones he’s always dreamed of touching. He wants to smooth away the tears that are threatening to fall. John is amazed by Sherlock’s feelings. He never could have dreamed he meant this much to him. It was almost worth being shot to see this, John thinks. John is grateful he was able to protect him. It was his turn.

“M’glad you’re ok. Sorry.” John says faintly, and his eyes fall shut. Distantly, he can feel Sherlock press around him, huddle closer. He wants to move, to tell him it’ll be ok, he’s safe now, but he can’t lift his arms. Sherlock is muttering, whispering curses. John is fading, he’s pretty sure he’s slipping into a dream. It has to be a dream. The pain is nearly gone, his body numb. The feeling of being nestled in Sherlock’s arms, his lap, is pure bliss. If it is a dream, it’s the best he’s ever known, because he swears he just heard something he’d never imagined falling from Sherlock’s lips. He definitely knows he’s dying now. His brain is just trying to send him off with a beautiful image. His subconscious desires making themselves known in his last moments. He supposes he’ll accept. It’s not like Sherlock could ever really love him. 

John drifts in and out of consciousness, trying to hold on to the image in his mind of Sherlock leaning over him, concern and care evident in those features. As he’s jostled into the ambulance, the paramedics working over his injury, he briefly wonders where Sherlock is. His last conscious thoughts are pondering why Sherlock isn’t with him before the last wave of darkness comes crashing over him, pulling him down into its depths. 

The next thing John registers is the soft flutter of warmth flittering over his skin, trailing up over his wrist, his arm. A hot weight presses itself into his palm, and it takes John a few minutes to realize that it is a hand. But whose? It’s too large to be Harry’s, or Mrs Hudson’s, the calluses rubbing against his skin too pronounced. Lestrade is not much for hand-holding. That leaves only one option. Sherlock. 

John is struggling to wake, his body not responding the way he wants. He can feel Sherlock entwine his fingers with his own.

“People will definitely talk, John,” Sherlock whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

No, John thinks. He’s sorry. He’s sorry he ever married Mary bloody Morstan and allowed her to enter into their lives. He’s sorry he couldn’t be what Sherlock needed when he plummeted from the roof at Barts and faked his death for two years. He’s sorry he’s let him down. 

He’s still trying to emerge from his stupor. The haze is receding a bit and he can almost move. Just a bit more, and he can tell him, tell him he’s sorry for everything. Distantly he hears Sherlock talk to someone, then he feels warm breath on his face. 

“John. I’ll see you soon. I love you.” 

Oh. John thinks, not awake at all then. Suddenly the weight lifts from his hand, and the cold seeps in where Sherlock’s had been. He’s gone. Or was never really there, John cannot be sure of which. But what he thought he heard cannot possibly be real. Sherlock doesn’t love him. He doesn’t feel things that way, never has. Sure, he was upset that John was shot. But they’re friends. It’s a normal reaction. Plus, there’s nothing Sherlock hates worse than being beaten. And Mary has gotten the better of him now, twice. Anything else is just John’s desires running amok. 

John tries again to wake up, push away the lingering fog and find out what’s real. In his mind he’s crawling, scrambling to surface, but his fatigue is too great, too strong. It’s not a fight he can win. He decides to just give in to the dream he’s woven for himself. Besides, it’s a lovely dream. 

“Sherlock,” he breathes, before slipping back down once more. 

The next time he awakes he’s not sure where he is. Hospital, surely, but it’s not the dull roar of the A&E surrounding him, or the thrum of the trama unit. He’s already been admitted then. Blinking his eyes open the first thing he registers is the beeping of the monitors. The steady tones are a break from the dull hum of the fluorescent lights glowing overhead. He looks to his left, noting the myriad of equipment monitoring all his vitals. Blood pressure, oxygen, heart rate. He’s pleased to note they all appear normal. He tries to sit up a bit, but a sharp pain stops him. He looks down at his body and the bandage wrapped around his chest. Surgery then. He wonders how bad the damage is and how soon he can get out of this place. For a doctor, he really hates hospitals. 

He lets his head fall back and replays the last memories he has. He remembers entering the warehouse, Sherlock trying desperately to get him to leave, Mary throwing mocking insults in his direction. Mycroft arriving, a gunshot, Sherlock sprawled across the floor, Mary collapsed. He can remember the pain, and then a blissful numbness that seeped through his body. And he can remember the feel of laying in Sherlock’s lap, the warmth surrounding him. Sherlock’s hands on him, applying pressure to the wound. His eyes...

Suddenly it all comes flooding back. Sherlock looking so pained in that moment. More scared than John had ever seen him, his brow creased with worry. His hands trembling as they carefully removed his clothing to search for the wound. His voice, pleading with John to hold on, to fight, to stay with him. And something else? Or was John imagining things? 

John opens his eyes fully and takes stock of the room. There is a chair pulled up next to his bed, and several paper cups discarded on the table. It looks as if someone has been here recently, although he appears to be alone at the moment. He can’t help the overwhelming feeling of disappointment that floods him at that fact. So it was just a dream then. Because if Sherlock really had said what he thought he’d heard, he’d be here, wouldn’t he? 

He lets his head fall back with a sigh. He wonders what happened to Mary. He knows he’s a good shot, Jefferson Hope can attest to that, so there’s a good chance she’s dead. He feels a brief flash of guilt in his gut at that, and a twinge of something more. Sadness? Remorse? In the end he hated her, but he had loved her once. Whatever she was, there was a time when she turned his life around. She had kept him from following Sherlock to the grave. Given the fact that Sherlock turned out to be alive, he will always be grateful to her for that. Although, he should have known it never was going to work. The minute Sherlock came back it was like a drug, he was sucked back in, craving the next hit. After the train car incident, he had truly forgiven Sherlock, although he still held on to part of his anger. He still can’t let it all fully go. But even with the lingering tension between them, they had fallen back into step, John taking his place beside Sherlock Holmes as they ran around solving crimes. It was almost like before the fall. John should have told Mary then, before the wedding was a sure thing. 

The wedding. Sherlock practically planned the whole thing. Honestly, John couldn’t tell you what colour the flowers were, or the bridesmaid dresses were. But Sherlock knew. John was amazed. He’d thought Sherlock would treat Mary the way he’d done all his other girlfriends, with disdain and ridicule. But Sherlock seemed to genuinely like her, going out of his way to make her feel welcome, even inviting her along on cases a couple of times. John had hated that, hated splitting one second of his time with Sherlock with Mary. And the two of them, always chatting about this and that, like old friends. John longed to shout at the pair of them. In all the madness, he just got swept up, pushed along, and before he knew it, he was pledging to love and honour Mary Morstan till death they do part. It wasn’t until the speeches started that he realised that he may have made a huge mistake. 

The door opens, jarring him from his thoughts. John pops his head up, hoping to catch sight of inky curls and a flipped collar, but instead it’s a white coat and a kind smile. 

“Ah, Dr Watson. Good you’re awake. I’m Dr Oberhauer, I performed your surgery.”

John nods, “Nice to meet you Doctor,” he croaks, his voice thick with disuse. “I’m imagining it went ok, since we’re talking and all.”

The doctor fixes him with a look. “The bullet entered the inferior vena cava, and nicked your liver. We were able to repair the damage, yes, but it was touch and go. You underwent asystole on the table and we needed to perform emergency measures to bring you out. In other words, Doctor, you’re a very lucky man.”

John is shocked by what the surgeon is telling him. He hadn’t realized it was that close. Mary almost killed him. Another half centimeter, and he’d be dead. He’s also impressed. She really was a good shot, the wound he carries is identical to the one she gave Sherlock. 

“I see,” John says. “How long will I have to stay here?”

“Of course we need to keep you under observation for a while, make sure there is no internal bleeding. And I’d like a cardiologist to check out your heart to make sure everything is healing well. But if everything goes well, I’d say a couple of weeks, give or take.”

John inwardly groans, but accepts. He knows how these things work, and no amount of griping is going to change the system. All he can hope for now is that he heals up enough to go home, and recover the rest of the way in peace. Home. Wherever that is now. 

“Thanks, Doctor,” he says, his eyes already falling shut again. He can hear the click clack of the doctor’s shoes as he leaves the room, the soft click of the door catching as it closes. He’s nearly asleep again when he senses someone in his room. John supposes it's a nurse or another doctor here to check his vitals. They can bloody well go ahead without his input, he thinks. 

A soft rustle of fabric and the sound of a chair dragged against a floor alert him to the fact that it's someone else. John turns his head to the side and opens his eyes a crack. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

Sherlock’s face breaks into a soft smile as he folds himself into the visitors chair. “Hi,” he whispers back. 

There are things John wants to say, needs to say, but he’s fading. His lips are moving, but he’s aware he’s not making any sounds. Sherlock somehow seems to understand. 

“Sleep now, John. I’ll be here when you wake.”

John nods, allowing himself to be pulled under, Sherlock’s promise echoing in his brain. 


End file.
